The Wallachian fields of yore,
had such a prestigious decor.
Hanging corpses with his skill,
thirsting only for bloody thrill.
Crucifixes near a soulless heart,
fields of bodies displaying art.
Scorching the earth each crusade,
Islam cursing his torturous blade.
Cordial visits of clueless guests,
sharing ideas with the noblesse.
Later slicing their fattened sacks,
sharpening his broad stone axe.
There were nights never spoken,
gnashing teeth...
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